Ah September. Season of mists, mellow fruitfulness and the official start of what is affectionately known in our social circle as ‘Roasting Season’. It’s not a weird sex thing (or at least, not that I’m aware of). No. Roasting Season is what directly follows after ‘Barbecue Season’. These are the only two official seasons in the year, balls to outdated spring, summer, autumn, winter. There’s two seasons, and back to The Asda to anyone who says otherwise.
We’ve usually been able to tell when the start of each season is by the internal magic of my husband Lee’s body clock. At some invisible, unseen, chemical signal deep within his brain, one day he will lurch up from whatever he happens to be in the middle of at any given time – working at his laptop, or drilling holes in something I wasn’t aware we owned – and announce that he’s off to the shop. He’ll return with, essentially, an entire dead animal. The way you tell whether it’s Roasting or Barbecue season is this: If the animal is mostly in one lump, roasting it is for the next few months. If it’s in bits – on the barbecue it goes, and NOTHING ELSE WILL DO for the foreseeable future.
Anyway, this is all a long-winded way of pointing out that last week, we were round at our mates’ house for one of the first jollies of Roasting Season. We’d eaten like kings. The wine was flowing. Me and my friend had moved from the dinner table to what they actually call ‘the digesting sofa’, which is basically a bed you can lie on and regret your gluttony until it’s time for pudding. There’s an air of contented calm in the room as we chat, intermittently, about nothing much as our host John clears away the dishes.
Lee is sitting at the table, phone in hand.
He is joining in, but I can tell he’s a little distracted.
No matter, I think. It’s early on a Sunday afternoon. I’m aware by now after twelve years of marriage that most eBay listings seem to end on a Sunday evening so I think we’re safe. He’s probably not even on eBay! Maybe he’s checking a work email. Or perhaps it’s that whatsapp group he’s part of, the one they call ‘Ladz Bantz’ which is basically all of them asking each other needily and repeatedly if they want to go to the pub , interspersed with videos of people hurting themselves. Ah, men.
So nothing to worry about here, I reassure myself, and go back to wondering how many roast potatoes constitute ‘too many’, and at what point I had exceeded that threshold.
Lee looks up from his phone with a start, as white as a sheet.
There’s a hunted look on his face.
A hush falls over the room, as all eyes take in his shocked expression. As a seasoned veteran, I can tell there’s a mild look of panic behind his eyes. I’ve seen this before. In horses.
“Everything alright mate?” asks John.
Silence.
A murder of crows startles off into the clear September sky. A solitary butterfly dances past the window. Outside, the sky begins to darken.
“I. Well….Errrr….” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
He raises his gaze, sheepishly.
The strains of the Imperial March whisper ominously from the radio in the next room.
“I think… I think I’ve just bought a Maclaren”.
Me: “….”
Lee: “….”
All of us, aghast: !!!!!!! YOU FUCKING WHAT MATE??????????!
I prayed with every fibre of my being that he was talking about the popular brand of children’s buggy and not the hundred-thousand-pound supercar brand Maclaren. There then followed an elaborate and rapid stream of consciousness jabbering, where Lee attempted to explain how the opportunity to buy – you guessed it – the supercar, had arisen.
It involved a car dealer friend, a recently totalled insurance write-off in need of ‘only very, very minor cosmetic repair’, a buying collective, more money than we have EVER OWNED let alone had spare to drop on buying a mangled fraction of a sports car, and the kind of impulsive bad decision that comes from being the wrong side of a fine bottle of red in the lull after dinner.
Here’s where I do the massive spoiler (do Maclarens have a massive spoiler?). The deal fell through approximately seven minutes later, but I don’t doubt that those were the longest seven minutes in Lee’s life.
(If the deal had gone through, it’s possible they might also have been the last seven minutes of his life.)
Luckily, no sports cars for us. Yet. We live to roast another day.
The good shit
Hi to all new subscribers. For those who don’t know, this newsletter is usually a stupid true story, and then some recommendations on stuff I’ve found funny, good, amusing or interesting recently. I’m always open to suggestions, so if you’ve seen something that other readers might enjoy, you can reply to this email just like a normal message with your own recommendations or stupid links.
Despite being ill with medieval shingles (for a month!! awful!!) I’ve been feeling a little more jolly these last days, and have been enjoying….
Twitter. Now, twitter in 2020 seems to have been a bit of a bin fire, but occasionally it allows you to discover extremely amusing people. Read this entire thread of incredibly astute insults written by Guy Kelly, and then follow him immediately because he’s fucking brilliantly funny.
Are you aware of The Daily Mash? I’ve been a long time fan of their work and informative news articles, like this one.
My brother is the funniest person alive (not his words, Lynn, the words of Top Gear Magazine) and has recommended that I listen to the new Alan Partridge podcast. You can listen to a sample of it here, which did make me lol.
I know I am late to the party on this one, but I finally got round to watching Greta Gerwig’s version of Little Women last week. It’s SO beautifully done - funny, touching, gorgeous to look at and really really worth a watch.
Thanks for reading - I really REALLY do appreciate everyone who reads and shares this newsletter. Thanks so much for sticking with me!
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Who am I anyway?
I'm Lindsay. Bit of a dickhead, freelance writer for money, author of And Other Idiots and other internet shite for kicks. This newsletter will be a short story of some idiotic exploits from quite close to home, for no other reason than to make you smile every two weeks. Exactly how much shit can one man buy on Ebay? I intend to find out.
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